The White Summit

The White Summit (English Translation)

Mont Blanc is the highest point in the Alps, 4,810 meters above sea level. The locals call it La Dame Blanche, the White Lady. At an altitude of 4,200 meters, almost at the very summit, the frozen body of a mountaineer was found in 1954. In his jacket pocket was a photograph of a woman and a note in French: "I am climbing for that which is higher." What he meant, no one ever understood.




"It's strange that it doesn't hurt at all," he said, looking at his hand. The fingers were black to the second knuckle, the skin stretched tight like a mummy's. "At first, it was hellishly painful, but now, nothing. Just cold."

"Don't talk like that." Marta sat nearby on a provision crate, huddled in her down jacket. "They'll come tomorrow. We agreed on five days, and only four have passed."

"You're counting wrong. Today is the sixth." He smirked with chapped lips; blood had seeped from the lower one. "Remember how we argued about the calendar in Chamonix? You always mix up the days."

She didn't answer. She was looking down, to where the whiteness of the snow gave way to the blue of the ice, and beyond that, to the gray emptiness of the clouds. A refuge at 3,800 meters. A wooden hut, frozen into the slope. Four walls, a potbelly stove that hadn't worked for two days because the firewood and kerosene had run out. Outside, a fierce wind howled, penetrating the cracks.

"I'll bring in some snow, melt it," she said. "You need to drink."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why do I need to drink. I won't make it down anyway."

"Stop it."

"Marta," he turned his head, and she saw his eyes—clear, calm, almost mocking. "I know. My left leg below the knee is dead. My right hand is dead. Third-degree frostbite, maybe even fourth. If they come tomorrow, I'll still be without a hand and a leg. If they come the day after, I'll die here. If they don't come at all... Well, you understand."

She stood up abruptly, knocking over the crate.

"Shut up. Just shut up. They'll come, we'll go down, they'll treat you, and everything will be fine."

"You believe that so much, it's almost touching."

"And you don't?"

"No," he said. "I don't."

She went out. She slammed the door so hard that the frosted-over hinges rattled. He could hear her fussing outside, the snow crunching under her boots. Then silence. Only the wind. Always that wind.

He leaned back on the sleeping bag—the only warm thing they had left—and closed his eyes.

Marta.

He had met her in Grenoble, in a bar for climbers. She was drinking whiskey and reading Camus. The Myth of Sisyphus. He sat down next to her, ordered the same.

"Camus doesn't work at three thousand meters," he said. "I've checked."

She looked up—her eyes were gray, mocking, with tiny gold flecks near the pupils.

"And what does work?"

"Nothing. It's just cold, and you want to go down."

"Then why do you climb?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know. Habit, I guess."

She laughed. Her laugh was a little hoarse—from cigarettes, as he learned later.

"A habit of climbing to where it's cold and you want to go down. A fine habit."

"Is yours any better?"

"Mine?" She downed her whiskey in one gulp. "My habit is falling in love with men who are always climbing somewhere. Up mountains, up Everest, up volcanoes, to hell and back. Then sitting at the bottom and waiting for them to return. Or not return."

"And do they often not return?"

"One didn't. The others came back, but they were different. The mountain changed something in them. They'd descend, but they'd stay up there, at the top. You understand?"

He understood. He knew men like that. He was one of them.

"And you?" she asked. "Do you stay up there too?"

"Always," he said. "Down here, I'm just waiting until I can go up again."

She looked at him for a long, searching moment.

"So you're one of those who never truly comes down."

"I guess so."

"Then what do you need a woman for?"

The question was direct, like a punch. He didn't answer right away. He rolled the empty glass in his fingers.

"I don't know," he said at last. "Maybe to have someone to wait at the bottom. To have somewhere to descend to, even if you still stay up there, at the top."

She nodded. As if that were the right answer.

They slept together that same night. In a cheap hotel where the windows were drafty and it smelled of mold. She was fierce, greedy, demanding. He was detached, almost cold. Afterwards, she lit a cigarette, lying on her back, staring at the ceiling.

"You'll never truly be with me," she said. "Even when you're here, you're there. At the top."

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just know this: when you die up there, on your mountain, I won't cry. I'll just raise a glass and say, 'Well, you've finally reached your damned heaven'."

He laughed.

"Deal."

And they lived together for two years.

Before Marta, there had been others.

Sophie. An artist from Lyon. She painted mountains from his photographs and called him "my snow leopard." She slept with him after every ascent, as if making love not with him, but with the mountain itself. He left her because she started talking about children.

Anna. A doctor from Bern. Practical, rational, always with a first-aid kit in her bag. She dressed his wounds, set his dislocations, lectured him on how he was ruining his health. He left her because she was right.

Claire. An American, a millionaire's daughter. She sponsored his expeditions, bought expensive gear, rented apartments in Chamonix with a view of Mont Blanc. He left her because she wanted him to quit the mountains and do "something normal." Open a climbing school for tourists. Guide fat Germans up the Eiger.

"You could make a living from this," she'd say. "You're talented. You have the experience. Why risk your life for some peaks?"

"Because otherwise, it's meaningless," he would answer.

"What's meaningless?"

"Life."

She didn't understand. They never understood.

And then—Marta. Who understood. Who didn't try to change him. Who just waited at the bottom and, every time he returned, would ask:

"Well? Did you find what you were looking for up there?"

"No."

"So you'll go up again?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll wait."

But this time, she didn't wait at the bottom. She climbed with him.

That was his mistake. He shouldn't have taken her. She wasn't a climber. Yes, she'd gone to the mountains, but those were hikes, tourist trails. And he was planning to take on the north face. In winter. The most difficult route on Mont Blanc.

"You're out of your mind," said Jacques, his old partner, when he found out. "In winter, and with a woman who's never been on a sheer wall."

"She'll stay at the refuge," he had answered. "I'll go alone."

"Then what's the point of her being there?"

"The point is that I want her to be there. At the top. Not down in the valley, but up there. On the mountain. So she can see."

"See what?"

"What I climb for."

Jacques shook his head.

"You're an idiot. The mountains don't show their secrets to women. They only show them to those who are ready to die."

"Maybe I am ready."

"Then don't take her. Why drag her into your own death?"

But he didn't listen. And they went up. A three-day ascent, through snow, ice, a wind that knocked you off your feet. Marta followed him in silence, stubbornly, her teeth clenched. On the second day, she got altitude sickness—nausea, dizziness—but she didn't complain. On the third day, they reached the refuge.

"I'm going further tomorrow," he said. "To the summit. You'll stay here."

"No."

"Marta..."

"I'm going with you."

"You can't."

"I can."

He looked at her—at her stubborn, pale face, whitened by the altitude, at her chapped lips, at her gloved hands pressed to her chest for warmth.

"You'll die up there."

"Then I'll die. But I won't stay here while you're up there, at the top. I want to see. I want to understand what you're looking for."

And he, the idiot, had agreed.

They set out at dawn. They walked along a ridge where the wind was so strong they had to drop to all fours and crawl. She was behind him on the rope, like a climber, but she was not a climber, and when the blizzard hit, she fell.

She didn't plummet—he managed to hold the rope. But she was dangling over the abyss, and when he hauled her back up, her right arm was twisted at a strange angle. A break. Maybe a dislocation. At 4,200 meters, it didn't matter—both meant the end.

"We're going down," he said.

"No."

"Marta, your arm is broken."

"Not broken. Dislocated. I can feel it."

"It doesn't matter. We're going down. Now."

But when they tried to start the descent, the blizzard intensified. Zero visibility. Hurricane-force winds. Going down would have been suicide. They had to return to the refuge.

And now, on the sixth day, when the food was gone, the fuel was gone, and the frostbite had reached his bones, he lay there thinking that it was his fault. All the women he had left. It was his fault. All the women who had loved him and to whom he could give nothing but emptiness.

Because up there, on the white summit, there was nothing. Only cold. Only wind. Only the snow-white purity, close to the sky.

And still, he wanted to be there. He always had.

Marta returned with a pot of snow. She sat by the stove, trying to melt the snow with the warmth of her breath, because there was no fire left.

"They'll come tomorrow," she said, her voice trembling. "I know it. Tomorrow."

"Marta."

"What?"

"I never loved you."

She froze. The pot slipped from her hands, the snow spilling onto the floor.

"What did you say?"

"I never loved you. Or the others. Sophie, Anna, Claire. None of them. I don't know how. Up there, there's no room for love. Only for cold."

She stared at him for a long time. Then she laughed.

"You idiot. You think I didn't know?"

"What?"

"I always knew. From the first day. When you sat down next to me in that bar and said Camus doesn't work at altitude. I knew you were dead. That you were already up there, in your white paradise. And nothing would ever bring you back."

"Then why did you stay?"

She stood up. Walked over to him. Sat down next to him on the sleeping bag. She took his healthy hand—the left one, still alive.

"Because I was looking for something too. Not mountains. Not altitude. But... a border. That line where life ends and something else begins. You were on that line. Always. And I wanted to be there, with you. Just once."

He looked at her.

"And? Did you find it?"

"I don't know," she smiled. "Ask me tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I'll be dead."

"Then the day after."

He laughed. Coughed. A rattle escaped his throat.

"You're an impossible woman."

"I know."

She lay down beside him, pressed against his side. He could feel the cold of her body through her jacket. They were both cold. Dead.

"Up there," she said quietly, "what did you see?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"No. It's the truth. Nothing. Just whiteness. A white summit. It's like... like the end. The place you come to when nothing else matters anymore."

"And you wanted to be there. Your whole life."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He was silent for a long time. Then he said:

"Because down below, I didn't know how to live. I didn't know how to love. Didn't know how to be with people. I only knew how to do one thing—climb. To where there is nothing. Where you don't have to be human. Where you can just... be."

"Or not be."

"Yes. Or not be."

She pressed closer to him.

"If we die here tomorrow," she said, "I want you to know: I don't regret it. Not a single day."

"Even these six?"

"Even these six."

"You're crazy."

"I know."

They lay in the darkness, in the cold, in the silence. Outside, the wind howled. But here, inside, it was quiet. Almost peaceful.

He awoke to a light.

A bright, blinding, impossible light. He opened his eyes. Through a crack in the wall—a ray of sun. The first in six days.

The blizzard was over.

He tried to stand. He couldn't. His left leg wouldn't obey. His right hand was dead. He rolled onto his side, crawled to the door. Pushed it with his shoulder.

The door opened.

Outside, it was morning. A clear, frosty, radiant morning. The snow glittered like shattered glass. The sky was such a deep blue that it hurt to look at it.

And there, ahead, above the clouds, above the whole world, rose the summit. White, pure, unattainable.

He stared at it, and something inside him—the thing that had been dying for the last six days—suddenly came to life. Not his body. Not his thoughts. Something else. The thing he had always climbed for.

"Marta," he called hoarsely. "Marta, wake up. Look."

She didn't answer.

He looked back. She was lying there, in the sleeping bag, motionless. Her face was pale, like wax. Her lips were blue.

"Marta."

He crawled back. Touched her cheek. Cold. Ice-cold.

"Marta, damn it, wake up!"

She wasn't breathing.

He shook her. Again. Once more. Nothing.

She had died during the night. While he was sleeping. Quietly. Without waking.

He sat there, holding her dead hand, and looked at her closed face. It was calm. Almost serene.

"You wanted to see," he said aloud. "You said you wanted to see. There it is. Over there. The white summit. This is what I've been climbing for my whole life. For this. For this..."

His voice broke. He dropped his head to her chest and wept. For the first time in twenty years. He wept because she was dead. He wept because he was alive. He wept because the summit was there, a hundred meters away, and he would never reach it.

The helicopter arrived at noon. He heard the sound of the blades but couldn't get up. He was lying next to Marta, holding her hand, and staring at the ceiling.

They came in—two men in red jumpsuits, rescuers. One leaned over him.

"Monsieur, can you hear me? We're evacuating you."

"She's dead," he said.

"Yes, monsieur. We know. We're very sorry."

"She wanted to see the summit."

"Monsieur, we have to go down. Now. The weather is changing again."

They lifted him. Carried him to the helicopter. He looked back. Through the open door of the refuge, he could see her body in the sleeping bag. Small. Alone.

"Wait," he said. "I want to... I have to..."

"Monsieur, we can't wait. The storm will hit in half an hour."

"I have to take her with me!"

"We'll come back for her. I promise. But you first."

They loaded him into the helicopter. The doors slammed shut. The blades spun. The machine lifted off the ground.

He looked down, at the refuge below. A tiny dot on the white slope. And above it—the summit. White. Radiant. Unattainable.

And he suddenly understood.

All these years, he hadn't been climbing toward the summit. He had been climbing away from life. From love. From people. He had been climbing toward emptiness, toward oblivion, toward the place where you don't have to be human.

And Marta... Marta had followed him. Not because she was looking for the same thing. But because she was looking for him. The living man. The human being beneath the climber's mask. The man who was afraid to live.

And she had found him. There, at 3,800 meters, in a wooden hut, when they lay together in the darkness and he told her the truth. And she said she didn't regret it.

She didn't regret it.

And him?

The helicopter flew down, toward the valley, toward the hospital, toward life. He looked out the window. Up there, above the clouds, was the summit. White. Pure. Perfect.

And he knew he would never climb it again.

Not because he had lost a hand and a leg. But because he no longer wanted to.

Marta had taken his dream with her. Into her death. And she had left him something else.

Life.

An empty, meaningless, human life.

And he didn't know what to do with it.

Epilogue

Five years had passed.

He was sitting in a bar in Grenoble. The same bar where they had met. Drinking whiskey. Staring out the window, where the mountains were darkening behind the glass.

His left leg was gone. A prosthesis. His right hand—also a prosthesis. He had learned to write with his left hand. He wrote a book. About mountains. About death. About a woman who died so that he would understand he was alive.

The book became a bestseller. Money. Fame. Interviews. Women who offered themselves because he was a hero. A tragic hero.

He didn't touch them. He couldn't anymore. Something in him had died there, in the refuge, along with Marta.

He didn't know.

The bar door opened. A woman came in. Young. Dark hair. In her hands—a book. His book.

She sat at the next table. Ordered a whiskey. Opened the book.

He watched her. He wasn't going to approach her. Wasn't going to speak.

But she looked up. Looked at him. Smiled.

"You're the one, aren't you? The one who wrote this?"

"Yes."

"I've read it. Three times. I tried to understand. And I still don't."

"What, exactly?"

"Why she followed you. If she knew she would die."

He finished his whiskey. Placed the glass on the table.

"Because love isn't the desire to live together. It's the willingness to die together. If you have to."

She took out a cigarette and lit it.

"And you... will you love again?"

"No," he said. "I don't know how anymore."

"A shame."

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"Because you've finally come down. From the mountain. And it would be nice if someone were waiting for you at the bottom."

He looked at her. At her face. Not like Marta's. Different. But in her eyes—the same thing. The same readiness to understand the incomprehensible.

"No one's waiting," he said.

"Then maybe I'll wait?" She smiled. "I'll just sit here. Nearby. And I'll wait until you decide you're ready to be human again."

He wanted to say no. Wanted to get up and leave. Like before. Like always.

But he didn't get up.

He sat there. Was silent for a moment. Then he ordered more whiskey. Two glasses.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Anna."

"Anna," he repeated. And for the first time in five years, he didn't want to climb a mountain. He just wanted to sit here. In a bar. Next to a woman who would wait.

Outside, it was getting dark. The mountains were dissolving into the twilight. The white summit had disappeared behind the clouds.

But he wasn't looking there anymore.

He was looking at her.

And maybe, this was the beginning of something. Not love, yet.

But—an ordinary life.

Down below. Among people.

Where it wasn't cold.

Where you could breathe.

Where you could, finally, stay.

They sat for another hour. She talked about books, about mountains she had only seen in photographs, about how she had always wanted to climb at least one peak. Not a high one. Just—to look down and understand what those who climb feel.

He listened. Nodded. Answered in short phrases. All correct. Just as it should be.

But something inside him was silent.

She gave him her phone number. Wrote it on a napkin. "Call me, if you want to talk. Or just be quiet. I know how to be quiet."

He took the napkin. Folded it. Put it in his pocket.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For being willing to wait."

She smiled and left.

He was alone. He finished his whiskey. Looked out the window. The mountains had almost disappeared in the darkness, only the snow on the peaks still gleamed with a ghostly light.

He paid. Left.

The hotel was nearby—small, cheap, with a view of the parking lot. He was renting a room on the third floor. One bed, a table, a chair, a window with a curtain that didn't close all the way.

He climbed the stairs. The prosthesis on his left leg creaked on every step. He opened the door. Turned on the light.

On the table—a bottle of whiskey. Half empty. A pack of cigarettes. A lighter. And a photograph in a frame.

Marta.

The same one they had found in his pocket when he was in the hospital. She was smiling. Gray eyes with gold flecks. Her hair was tousled by the wind. Taken somewhere in the mountains, the day before they went up for the last time.

He sat on the bed. Took the photograph. Stared at it for a long time.

"I'm sorry," he said aloud. "I don't know what I'm sorry for. That you died? That I survived? That today, in a bar, I sat with another woman and almost believed I could start over?"

The photograph was silent.

He put it back. Poured a whiskey. Drank it. Lit a cigarette.

"She said she would wait," he said to the photograph. "Just like you. Willing to wait. Willing to understand. And I almost... almost believed I could do it. That I could live. Down below. Among people. Where it's warm. Where you can breathe. Where you don't have to climb to feel alive."

He took a drag. Exhaled.

"But it's a lie, Marta. All of it is a lie. I can't. I don't know how. You took that with you when you died. You took me. The man who could have stayed at the bottom. And what's left... is just a body. Prosthetics. Scars. Emptiness."

He finished the whiskey. Poured another.

"And you know what the worst part is? I don't even want to learn. I don't want this ordinary life. I don't want to sit in a bar with a woman named Anna who is waiting. I don't want to write books for people who will never climb higher than a thousand meters. I don't want to be a hero. A tragic, fucking, hero."

He stood up. Walked to the window. Threw it open. The cold air hit his face.

There, beyond the city, in the darkness, stood the mountains. Invisible, but he could feel them. Massive. Cold. Eternal.

"Are you there?" he asked quietly. "Marta, are you there? On the white summit? Or did you just vanish, like smoke? Like everything else?"

Silence.

He closed the window. Returned to the table. Opened the top drawer.

There, under old maps and letters, lay a revolver. Small, black, cold. He had bought it two years ago. Just in case. If it became completely unbearable.

He picked it up. Turned it over in his hand—his left, the only one still living. He checked the cylinder. Six bullets. All in place.

He sat back down on the bed. Laid the revolver beside him. Took Marta's photograph.

"Remember what you said? That last night? 'If we die here tomorrow, I want you to know: I don't regret it. Not a single day'."

He smirked.

"Well, I regret it, Marta. I regret every single day since you died. Because this isn't living. It's just... vegetating. Mechanical. Meaningless. I wake up, I write, I eat, I sleep. Repeat. And the whole time I'm thinking: why? For what? To one day sit in a bar with a woman named Anna and pretend that it matters to me?"

He lit a new cigarette.

"You know what the funniest thing is? She's like you. Not in her looks. But... in that willingness. That gaze. As if she's saying: 'I understand. I'll accept you as you are.' And I almost... almost let myself believe. That I could start over. That I could betray you and keep on living."

He picked up the revolver. Looked at it. Cold metal. A simple solution.

"But I can't betray you, Marta. Because you were the only one who climbed up there with me. To the white summit. You were the only one who died so that I would understand I was alive. And I can't... I don't have the right... to take your death and trade it for another life with another woman."

He pressed the muzzle to his temple.

"Forgive me, Marta. Or don't. It doesn't matter. I just want to be there. Where you are. On the white summit. Where it's cold. Where there is nothing. Where I can, finally, not be."

He closed his eyes.

He saw her face. In that last moment. Calm. Serene. As if she had found what she was looking for.

"I'm coming," he whispered.

And pulled the trigger.



* * *

Commentary on the Text and Translation

Commentary on the Text Itself

"The White Summit" is a devastating piece of psychological realism. It's a brutal, unflinching exploration of grief, guilt, and the self-destructive nature of an identity built on escaping life rather than living it.

The Double Ending: The story's most powerful and cruel device is its structure. The main body of the story concludes with a glimmer of hope—the protagonist understands his folly and is forced back into a life he doesn't want but might learn to live. This is a classic, bittersweet "redemption arc." The epilogue, however, systematically dismantles this hope. It shows that his "revelation" on the mountain was temporary. The meeting with Anna isn't a new beginning; it's a test that proves he is fundamentally unchanged and unchangeable.

The True Betrayal: The protagonist's final monologue is the core of the tragedy. He sees a new life with Anna not as a gift, but as a betrayal of Marta. His love for Marta has become pathologically intertwined with his identity as a non-living, mountain-bound man. To accept a new life would be to invalidate the meaning he has constructed around her death. Her death didn't teach him to live; it gave him the ultimate excuse not to.

Psychological Realism: Unlike the other, more metaphysical stories, this one is painfully real. The dialogue is sharp and authentic. The internal monologues are raw and honest in their selfishness and pain. The character is not a mythic hero but a deeply flawed, broken man, and that is why his story is so powerful.

Love as Readiness to Die: The protagonist's aphorism—"love isn't the desire to live together. It's the willingness to die together"—is a perfect summary of his tragic worldview. He can only comprehend love through the lens of death and sacrifice, not through the mundane, difficult work of living.

Notes on the Translation Process

This translation was a challenge of tone and emotional precision. The language is stark and direct, and the English needed to reflect that.

Maintaining the Coldness: The prose is cold, like the mountain itself. I avoided overly poetic or flowery language, sticking to simple, hard-hitting sentences. The descriptions of frostbite, the dying stove, and the landscape are meant to be factual and brutal.

Dialogue: The dialogue is the heart of the story. It needed to be sharp, concise, and emotionally loaded. I focused on the rhythm of the exchanges, particularly the final conversation in the hut, to make them feel as raw and real as possible.

The Final Monologue: This was the most critical part to get right. The translation needed to convey the character's exhaustion, his self-loathing, and the cold, terrifying logic of his decision. The use of profanity ("tragic, fucking, hero") was kept from the original Russian to underscore his raw disgust with the persona he has been forced into.

The Two Endings: It was important that the "first" ending felt complete and plausible, making the gut-punch of the "true" ending in the epilogue even more effective. The translation of the first ending maintains a tone of weary resignation and potential hope, which is then utterly shattered by the second.

The goal of the translation was to ensure the English-speaking reader experiences the same emotional devastation as a Russian reader: the brief illusion of hope, followed by the slow, inexorable descent into the final, cold silence of the gunshot.